


The Second of Evening Star

by traditionalfire



Series: Miraak/Arya the Dragonborn [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Birthday Presents, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 07:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3373385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traditionalfire/pseuds/traditionalfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prompt from adspinner: "Person A has to buy / find a gift for person B for a special day celebration, without them knowing. Person B however catches A in the act and has fun seeing what they come up with to keep him/her in the dark."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Second of Evening Star

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ADSpinner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADSpinner/gifts).



In the dark, fingers entwined with his under the cover of warm furs, she would ask him about his former life. Sometimes he humored her, and told her in low, hypnotic tones of a Solstheim untouched by ash. Of the magnificence of his temple at the height of his power and the awe it, and he himself, inspired in Solstheim’s people. And sometimes he would not like her question, though she did not know why, and he would disentangle his limbs from hers and turn away, determined not to speak to her again until morning.

“When were you born?” Arya asked, on the night of her own twentieth birthday. Miraak simply grunted, displeased, behind her back until she squeezed his hand hard enough to draw forth a resigned sigh.

“I don’t remember. What does it matter?” He pulled her closer to his chest and nuzzled his face into her hair in a transparent attempt to distract her.

"How can you not remember your own birthday?” There was no way she’d ever forget her own birthday, that was for sure. It was the perfect excuse to eat more sweet rolls than propriety would typically allow, and thus, the best day of the year by far.

He remained silent for quite some time, and she began to wonder if she’d found another one of those questions that he didn’t care for.

“My father never told me the exact date. I believe I was born in the winter, but beyond that, I know nothing,” he murmured, with a hint of melancholy in his voice. Past experience told her that the topic of his family was generally off limits, so she said nothing more, and the warm comfort of his embrace lulled her to sleep shortly thereafter.

Every night brought more questions. What was his favorite food in the whole wide world? A dish that did not exist anymore. How sad. If he had to spend a day as a guar or a chicken, which would he prefer? She never found out, because he laughed harder than she’d ever thought he was capable of, and kissed her until she forgot. Had he ever been in love? Not a wise query, as it turned out. She could learn just as much about him from the questions he refused to answer as the ones he answered freely, though she would never reveal that little secret. He was a puzzle to be solved, and the challenge was addictive.

In public, he would often hang back, shadowing her from a distance unless he suspected she needed protecting. She almost told him once that she _never_ needed protecting, and did he really think so little of her skill in battle? But his protectiveness was endearing, much to her chagrin, so she stilled her tongue. Nonetheless, his habit worked in her favor on a cold day in the crowded Windhelm market, just a day short of two months since her twentieth birthday.

Tiny fingers traced the cover of a leather-bound journal. She knew he loved books, despite having more than his fill over the course of his long life, but she also knew that there was only one book in all existence that made any mention of his own contributions to history. In fact, she carried a copy of _The Guardian and the Traitor_ with her at all times. Oh, how she’d blushed when he found it in her pack, but he only smirked, and never said a word, Divines bless him. Knowing him, a journal seemed the perfect gift – an opportunity to pen his own tale, in his own words.

It was the second of Evening Star. Winter by all accounts, and if she remembered correctly it had been just a little more than six months since she brought him home to Nirn. If he did not have a birthday, she would give him one. He would either be annoyed beyond words or he’d give her that smile that made her weak in the knees, eyes full of mirth as he pulled her close. Even the slimmest chance of the latter was worth the risk of the former.

“What do you have there?”

She did not hear him approach, and the neatly wrapped package nearly tumbled into the snow before he caught it.

“Nothing!” She dove for the package, but he easily kept it from her reach. Damned Atmorans had an unfair advantage on Bretons.

“Ah, it’s safe to assume it’s something very important, then,” he said with a laugh, dodging a half-hearted punch to the gut. “Tell me, _mal dovah_ , and I’ll give it back.”

“Since when are you playful?” she huffed. He was countering every move she made with ease.

“I have my moments.” He gave her a light shove, but his strength was enough to send her back into a snowbank. For a moment he looked mildly remorseful, before her indignant scowl made him chuckle again.

“It’s none of your concern!” In truth, she intended to give it to him that night, in the privacy of their room at Candlehearth Hall, although she was rapidly beginning to question if he deserved a gift at all.

“I think it is, though. Why would you be so flustered otherwise?” He extended a gloved hand to help her up, which she gratefully accepted before barreling straight into his side and knocking him to the ground. Miraak no longer looked amused when her eyes met his. The ice was not as forgiving as the snow, and he’d taken the brunt of the impact.

“All right, all right,” she sighed. The package was dirtied and wet, but still in one piece next to him. Arya carefully brushed it off with her cloak, and placed it in his lap. “Surprise?”

“So it is for me after all.” He tried to give her a chastising look, but she knew him far too well to buy it.

“Well? Open it already.” Her fingers occupied themselves with the hem of her skirt. He raised a single eyebrow, but said nothing, and lifted the lid. If anyone else had observed him at that moment, they would not be able to determine his reaction to what was inside, but Arya was not just anyone, and his _sil liin_ knew when he was pleased. Not quite what she had hoped for, but even the slightest hint of a smile on his lips made her heart race.

“I appreciate the gesture, but I do not understand the meaning,” he said, flipping through the blank pages.

“Happy birthday.” She took his face in her hands and brushed his lips with hers, softly. He laughed – a deep, rich, genuine laugh.

“You are ridiculous.” He kissed her back before helping her to her feet once more.

“Can we get sweet rolls?” she chirped, hope dancing in her green eyes. “It is a birthday tradition of mine, after all.”

“Only if you tell me more about this tome you apparently want me to write.” It was enough of a promise to induce a little skip in her step as she dragged him towards the inn.

That night, there were no questions in the dark. Only the scratching of a quill by candlelight, and the quiet snoring of a contentedly full little Breton.


End file.
